Post by Jack Owyns on Nov 20, 2014 2:31:22 GMT
Jack's seated on a sofa, his hair slightly messed up, and he had a look, which has become a bit of the norm for him, of dilated pupils and bloodshot eyes that were quite visible. He was angry.
"NO! Listen, Marty... I don't give a shit about that... WHY? Tell me FUCKIN WHY? ... I DON'T CARE... I'll pay the fine... I SAID I'll pay it... God, it would be EPIC, the look on her fuckin' face... So what, do you really think I care? Jack Owyns, of all people... Care? No-no-no... I want that video. I want LIZ SMALL'S coast to coast sex tape, as my entrance video SUNDAY!"
Jack argued into his cell phone with part owner of MetroPRO Marty Sunshine.
"NO! Think about it... It won't just fuckin' hurt her, BUT THINK about it... It will hurt Mort... YES, yes it will... LISTEN TO ME DAMN IT..." Jack pulled his cell phone away from his ear and slammed it against the coffee table, then put it back to his ear, visibly angry with the situation.
"Okay-oh-KAY!"
Jack listened, hearing Marty out on the other line.
"Now you listen to fuckin' me, okay... Think, Mort, he's trying to run a classy fuckin' promotion, he wants to show the PURE side of wrestling, RIGHT!? Well, how the fuck do you think his image will look when Liz, who backs him up and is running around flapping her fuckin' mouth — 'Team Liz, Team Mort' — has a fuckin' hardcore sex tape, huh? Dude, she takes ... See, now you follow ... Team Mort's very own Liz Smalls."
Jack held the phone against his ear using his shoulder as he poured himself another drink and lit a cigarette.
"Yeah?"
Jack stood up with his drink and cigarette in one hand, and the phone in the other.
"Well, fuckin' let me know, then ... Yes ... Alright ... Yeah, fuckin' later."
Jack looked at the phone's screen, hit "End Call," and then tossed it onto the sofa. He turned towards the camera, which had been recording the entire time.
"Liz, I bet you're fuckin' saying to yourself, 'He wouldn't; he wouldn't dare.' Well, Liz, sorry to burst your fuckin' bubble, but I would dare to do it. I want to fuckin' do it, and I plan to fuckin' do it. See, Liz — "
Jack walked over and reached behind the camera. He turned it to point at a man watching footage on a laptop. The footage is blurry, and you can't make out what is on the screen, but a distinct female moan gives the viewers a good enough idea. Jack reaches around and turns the camera back to face him. He pounds his drink and places it off screen, and then he takes a drag of his cigarette.
"You... You... How... I... FUCK IT! Do you know who I am? Win at any fuckin' cost. I don't care if this hurts you. Why should I care, huh? I don't like you. I fuckin' hate you! You're a whore, Priscilla Price version 2.0."
Jack reaches offscreen, this time returning with the bottle of whiskey, no glass. He slams it back, draining a quarter of the bottle down his throat.
"How about... Riddle me this, Liz. Your focus inside the ring is supposed to be impressive, right? Well, fuckin' tell me, how... do you plan to remain focused when everybody in the audience is watching the big screen, you suck a... Fuck, turn it off! I can't focus with... that... that shit playing in the fuckin' background. Turn it off!"
Jack stormed offscreen, and the sounds of a laptop smashing against the floor could be heard. Jack walked back on-screen.
"Where the fuck was I? Damn it! Whatever, Liz, I will do whatever it fuckin' takes to win, be it airing... that!" Jack points offscreen.
"Or doing... what my other fuckin' diary entry was about, the no soap, no deodorant, and all that shit. I'm winning this match, the one after it, and after that, and that... I will be the future fuckin' pure champion. That's right, Mort, me! You old bastard!"
Jack took one more drag.
"Liz... I got fuck all left to say to you."
Jack reached around and shut the camera off.
"NO! Listen, Marty... I don't give a shit about that... WHY? Tell me FUCKIN WHY? ... I DON'T CARE... I'll pay the fine... I SAID I'll pay it... God, it would be EPIC, the look on her fuckin' face... So what, do you really think I care? Jack Owyns, of all people... Care? No-no-no... I want that video. I want LIZ SMALL'S coast to coast sex tape, as my entrance video SUNDAY!"
Jack argued into his cell phone with part owner of MetroPRO Marty Sunshine.
"NO! Think about it... It won't just fuckin' hurt her, BUT THINK about it... It will hurt Mort... YES, yes it will... LISTEN TO ME DAMN IT..." Jack pulled his cell phone away from his ear and slammed it against the coffee table, then put it back to his ear, visibly angry with the situation.
"Okay-oh-KAY!"
Jack listened, hearing Marty out on the other line.
"Now you listen to fuckin' me, okay... Think, Mort, he's trying to run a classy fuckin' promotion, he wants to show the PURE side of wrestling, RIGHT!? Well, how the fuck do you think his image will look when Liz, who backs him up and is running around flapping her fuckin' mouth — 'Team Liz, Team Mort' — has a fuckin' hardcore sex tape, huh? Dude, she takes ... See, now you follow ... Team Mort's very own Liz Smalls."
Jack held the phone against his ear using his shoulder as he poured himself another drink and lit a cigarette.
"Yeah?"
Jack stood up with his drink and cigarette in one hand, and the phone in the other.
"Well, fuckin' let me know, then ... Yes ... Alright ... Yeah, fuckin' later."
Jack looked at the phone's screen, hit "End Call," and then tossed it onto the sofa. He turned towards the camera, which had been recording the entire time.
"Liz, I bet you're fuckin' saying to yourself, 'He wouldn't; he wouldn't dare.' Well, Liz, sorry to burst your fuckin' bubble, but I would dare to do it. I want to fuckin' do it, and I plan to fuckin' do it. See, Liz — "
Jack walked over and reached behind the camera. He turned it to point at a man watching footage on a laptop. The footage is blurry, and you can't make out what is on the screen, but a distinct female moan gives the viewers a good enough idea. Jack reaches around and turns the camera back to face him. He pounds his drink and places it off screen, and then he takes a drag of his cigarette.
"You... You... How... I... FUCK IT! Do you know who I am? Win at any fuckin' cost. I don't care if this hurts you. Why should I care, huh? I don't like you. I fuckin' hate you! You're a whore, Priscilla Price version 2.0."
Jack reaches offscreen, this time returning with the bottle of whiskey, no glass. He slams it back, draining a quarter of the bottle down his throat.
"How about... Riddle me this, Liz. Your focus inside the ring is supposed to be impressive, right? Well, fuckin' tell me, how... do you plan to remain focused when everybody in the audience is watching the big screen, you suck a... Fuck, turn it off! I can't focus with... that... that shit playing in the fuckin' background. Turn it off!"
Jack stormed offscreen, and the sounds of a laptop smashing against the floor could be heard. Jack walked back on-screen.
"Where the fuck was I? Damn it! Whatever, Liz, I will do whatever it fuckin' takes to win, be it airing... that!" Jack points offscreen.
"Or doing... what my other fuckin' diary entry was about, the no soap, no deodorant, and all that shit. I'm winning this match, the one after it, and after that, and that... I will be the future fuckin' pure champion. That's right, Mort, me! You old bastard!"
Jack took one more drag.
"Liz... I got fuck all left to say to you."
Jack reached around and shut the camera off.
